


The Deep-End Club

by SergeantSeahorse



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Inspired by a Movie, The Breakfast Club Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantSeahorse/pseuds/SergeantSeahorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riff on "The Breakfast Club" by John Hughes. Saturday detention for a scholar, a fighter, a killjoy, a queen, and a rebel. Sincerely yours, The Deep-End Club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep-End Club

**A SATURDAY IN DETENTION**

 

_Saturday, March 24 th, 1984. Storybrooke High School, Storybrooke, Maine, 04815._

_"Dear Mr.Gold,_

_We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did that was wrong. What we did_ was _wrong; BUT, we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do_ you _care? You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, the most convenient definitions. You see us as a scholar, a fighter, a killjoy, a queen, and a rebel. Correct? That’s the way we saw each other at 7:00 this morning. We were brainwashed."_

 

* * *

“These ungrateful Neanderthals. You would think having your last name on the auditorium, the library,  _and_  the football field would grant immunity from such an inane punishment as detention.”

 

The scoff that follows teeters the thin line between obvious disdain and slapstick comedy. “Are you absolutely certain you can’t get that insipid waste of an administrator to change his mind?”

  
  
Cora continues to look into the visor mirror when Regina finally turns towards her, touching up the strategic amount of lipstick that may as well be tattooed on. As Regina waits for a response she scowls, a practice rivaling only breathing in frequency. 

 

“Leave your childish judgments of Principal Gold to yourself," Cora reprimands as she blots at her lips with a tissue. Cora Mills is all jagged edges smoothed for show, choreographed speeches and pressed Armani business suits; compassion and consideration can't be conveniently scheduled between cocktail parties and board meetings.

 

Therefore, the quick blush of embarrassment that races across Regina's cheeks goes unnoticed. 

It always does. 

 

"Regina, your actions were irresponsibly selfish. Not only have you blemished your perfect record, but you've put me in quite the predicament. The undercurrent of snickers I have heard from the other board members since your little…” cue judgmental sneering, “ _stunt_ , has been nearly deafening. You made a fool of me, of which I will  _not_  tolerate or amend,” she annunciates harshly, each word a loaded bullet. 

 

She closes the visor and turns, flashing Regina one of her patented political smiles; deceit on a wrinkle-free face. “Your father will pick you up at three. I expect you to be ready and dressed for the dinner party soon after."

 

The click of the doors unlocking signals the conversation’s finality. Regina exits the car, the vein in her forehead pulsing.

 

“Oh, and Regina?” She freezes in place, her back to the Mercedes.

 

“If you ever do anything to jeopardize the reputation of the Mills’ name again, detention will be the _least_ of your concerns,” Cora coos, a promise tipped with venom. As the engine of the luxurious car roars to life, the heavy but fading percussion of heels striking the pavement is the only sign Cora needs to know her threat was heard. The last thing Regina sees is the bright flash of a red-lipped smirk over her shoulder as the car peels away.

 

A fiery-haired boy looks on as the stormy girl stalks across the parking lot, her jaw set as if struck in stone. She is menacing in the least; a python coiled to strike in tasteful Jimmy Choos. Only when the tails of her trench coat disappear through the doors of the school does he turn to pay attention to his mother’s incessant lecture.

  
  
“- no time to be wasting sitting in school, worrying over your mistakes or reading. Your father and I need you present, Archie. We have a huge shipment to hand out to customers, and we can't do that if you're having a teenage meltdown and acting like a baby. You've already wasted our time having to come here," she scorns, managing both bark and bite.

 

Archie shrugs.

 

She rolls her eyes and raises her wrist to peer at her watch, eyes widening at the clock's hands. “It’s six forty-nine! Your father and I have to be on the road by seven! Get out!" she urges as Archie scrambles out the door. He turns just in time for his paper bag lunch to bounce off his chest and fall to the concrete.

 

"Remember to be outside the school at two thirty, sharp!" her tone an order rather than a reminder. 

 

Archie sticks his hand through the window as it rolls up, an action he almost regrets, his yelp of fear stopping his mother two inches short of a broken hand. "B-but Mom," he interjects, hesitating as he retracts his hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Detention doesn't end until three."

 

The frustrated, idiot-christening huff that falls from his mother's lips doesn't faze him, having long lost its effects from over use and abuse. 

 

"I don't give a shit, Archie. Sneak out, lie, pull the fire alarm, whatever. Two-thirty, unnegotiable," she warns before she guns it, tires screeching in protest. 

 

"That's not even a word," Archie grumbles, picking up the dropped bag on the ground and shuffling towards the school. 

 

His shoulders droop impossibly lower. 

 

David listens to his father's booming laugh as they watch the bag ricochet off the scrawny boy's chest and drop to the ground. David lets a forced chuckle fall from his lips, rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans out of discomfort.

 

"Ohhhh man,” his father snickers, wiping a tear from his eye, “too bad Coach Killian missed out on a gem like _that_ for Receiver.” 

 

Mr. Nolan laughs them into a thick silence, a familiar phenomenon between the two. Their lives since the accident had left them with the shell of a bygone relationship, in a life that by all means looked the same. It only became noticeable in forgotten cups of cold coffee left abandoned in the microwave, or the tarp-covered car collecting dust in the garage. 

 

Thankfully, it was his Dad's turn to initiate the Awkward Throat Clear of Mercy.

  
  
"When I was your age, me and the guys did the same old shit. You just got caught," Mr. Nolan chastises, his thumb pads wearing at the thinning leather of the steering wheel. "Next time, tell that dickweasel Cassidy to keep his cocky mouth shut. Kid should never grow a beard," he chuckles preemptively, the coming joke tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  
  
"No one would be able to tell the difference between his mouth and his asshole."

  
  
A snort pushes itself out, despite David's half-hearted attempts not to laugh at his best friend.

  
  
"Such a fucking tool sometimes, that kid. You know James would just thump hi-" Mr. Nolan stops abruptly, thumbs pausing and smile wiped away. David looks to his fidgeting hands on his lap.

  
  
The silence returns. David wonders for the umpteenth time if his heartbeat can be heard in their quiet. 

  
  
A blonde saunters past the Nolan truck, stride confident. Her long hair whips behind her in the breeze, a cape rivaling that of the best superheroes; Superman would quake with jealousy in his spandex jammies. They both watch her approach and vanish into the school, their temporary distraction gone.

  
  
He sighs. He also sighs.

  
  
"Just… don't get in trouble anymore. Ain't no college wants a discipline case on their football team," Mr. Nolan mumbles, eyes locked on the parking lot ahead.

  
  
David nods and grunts, pushing the door open and closed, and bolting away with a quick wave behind him. Though Grunt, Push and Bolt wasn't what they taught in school to extinguish a fire, it sure did the trick as an alternative.

 

He looks up at the clock affixed to the side of the school.

 

Sixty fifty-eight in the morning. Only eight hours and two minutes to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, humans! First off, thank you for your time. Secondly, I want to keep our beloved Storybrooke folk true to character, which means I will be including as much canon storyline as possible. Assume what you know unless specified otherwise (though I don't think that will be much of an issue). If you will allow and I can convince you to do so, please suspend canon (mostly related to timelines, dates and ages matching up, yo) only slightly. 'Tis the nature of AUs; they're pesky, in that they don't like being put in a corner. If you didn't know, Baby AND stories based off of 1980's cult classics both have an aversion to corners. Who knew? 
> 
> This is loose in terms of POV, as well as adherence to the movie. I will honour it where it needs and deserves, but I by no means will be chunking out dialogue and plot to reproduce it exactly in this forum. I hope this isn't too abrasive or off-putting already! 
> 
> I will do my best to update swiftly, though swiftly is an ambitious word. Let's go with a strong inclination towards occasionally. Okay? Eventual SwanQueen, plus also Snowing, because really. ALSO FOREVER SAD WILL MY HEART BE THAT ALLISON REYNOLDS HAS NO TRUE, REALISTIC COUNTERPART IN THE OUAT WORLD. NO DANDRUFF STILL LIFE ART, BUT. I AM DOING MY BEST. 
> 
> ALRIGHTY! LET'S GO.


End file.
